the hero I love best is always the last one that I have read about.
We are all chained to Fortune's car; her tri- umphs over history are greater than Pompey's, as her wheel turns, never resting for a moment. She has as many phases as the moon, says Menelaus, in the words Sophocles puts into his mouth; and for those who are still in her first quarter, that is a comforting reflection.
I would sometimes say to myself: "What does all this matter, Breugnon? What to you are the glories of Rome, and the crimes and follies of these old rascals? You have your own faults and trou- bles to think of, why go out of your way to worry over those of people who have been dead and gone for eighteen hundred years? To a sober middle- class citizen of Clamecy, Caesar, Antony, and their light-o'-love, Cleopatra, these Persian princes who murdered their sons and married their daughters, were extremely depraved people ; the most virtuous thing they ever did was to die; so peace to their ashes ! — but how can a respectable man find pleas- ure in reading about such insanities? Think of Alexander, who spent the treasures of a nation on the burial of his beautiful favorite, Ephestion, Are you not shocked by such extravagance? — It is bad enough to murder a lot of people, for men are sav-